Coffee, lunch or dinner?

That depends on where you land on the friendship scale

 

It’s a question that is asked often of us: who is your 3 am friend? As in, who would you not hesitate to call in times of need, no matter what time of day or night it was. And frankly, only the very fortunate among us would have even a couple of friends who fit in that category.

 

But when I was last asked that question, it got me thinking of the many different kinds of friends I have on my list. And how, the best way to differentiate between them is on the basis of what kind of meal/drinks we sit down for together on a regular basis.

 

At the bottom of that list are what I call my “coffee friends”. These are people who are notch above casual acquaintances and a notch below close friends. These are people I am happy to catch up with every month or so, but would not dream of whatsapping on a regular basis. The relationship we have is restricted to coffee and cake; it never extends to a proper meal. When we meet, we are happy to exchange notes about the world in general and the latest social media controversies. But it never goes any deeper; and it never reaches the level of real confidences being exchanged. 

 

On the next rung are my “lunch friends”. This list mostly comprises women with whom I have an independent relationship that does not involve our respective husbands. So, instead of doing ‘couple dinners’ we do ‘solo lunches’. And frankly, I would not have it any other way. It is with these “lunch friends” that I have the most interesting conversations; with whom I discuss my deepest thoughts and share my darkest fears. It helps that we go back a long way. These are women who have seen me through my worst and celebrated me at my best. But despite the closeness of our bond, we remain determinately “lunch friends”. Heading out for dinner together somehow seems like a bridge too far.

 

So, who are my “dinner friends”, you ask? And since they come on top of the list, would it be fair to describe them as my closest friends? 

 

Well, that’s a tricky one. Some of my “dinner friends” are, indeed, part of my core group. They are people my husband and I have been friends with for decades, and with whom we have a very high comfort factor. These are folks with whom I can be myself. I can slip my shoes off, put my feet up on the sofa, and gossip with them late into the night, secure in the knowledge that none of my indiscretions will come back to bite me in the derriere. 

 

But then, there are those who qualify as “dinner friends” only because of social and professional obligations that we have to fulfil. So, while we may drink and eat, laugh and joke, exchange confidences, discuss our lives, a certain je ne sais quoi is missing. There is a faux-intimacy to these interactions; they don’t have the authenticity of real friendship. 

 

Are these categories watertight? Do the people from one friendship group ever migrate to another? Sure they do. Some “coffee friends” become “lunch friends”. More rarely, “lunch friends” make the transition to “dinner friends”.

 

As for 3 am friends, I am still stuck with the same two I have had for the past two decades. And I know I am lucky to have them.

Wedded bliss

Sometimes, old-style celebrations are the best

 

Last week, I attended a wedding reception held to celebrate the marriage of a friend’s daughter. Nothing unusual about that, you might say. And you would be right. But also completely wrong. 

 

This was a wedding reception like no other I have attended in recent times. For starters, the person standing at the entrance to greet the guests was none other than the mother of the bride, ready with a quick hug and a few warm words, with nary a party planner in sight. The reception itself was held on the lawns of an old-style Delhi bungalow, with a profusion of tuberose and other aromatic local blooms scenting the air while acoustic music played softly in the background. There wasn’t an accursed orchid in sight, and thankfully, no DJ to play blaring music that would make conversation impossible. 

 

But even more impressive than this restraint was the guest list. Unlike other Delhi weddings I have attended over the years, this was not a ‘Shakti pradarshan’ or show of strength. That is to say, the guests were not just important celebrities who had been invited to add gloss to the proceedings. Yes, there were some rich, famous and powerful people, but each one of them was a personal friend of the family.

 

And it was that single fact that changed the whole complexion of the evening. Every guest was happy to be there to bear witness and celebrate the newly-weds. The bride mingled cheerily with the guests instead of being stuck on a stage. The guests all knew one another and chatted happily, while scoffing the food (specially curated by a friend of the family). And because there were an optimum number of guests there were no long queues at the buffet, there were enough tables to sit down and have a civilized meal, and the bar was never overcrowded.

 

When it was time to leave, I was astonished to discover the bride’s mom now stationed at the exit, bidding goodbye to every guest and thanking them for having made the effort to come. I can’t remember the last time I went to a Delhi wedding and experienced this level of personal warmth from the hostess (and the host). 

 

The whole experience made me nostalgic for the family-style weddings that I would attend in my youth. In those days, there were no event managers involved in the planning and execution; instead, friends and family would pitch in to throw a party for the ages. The people who were invited were all friends and family, who were genuinely happy to be there. The food would be plentiful and delicious, but there weren’t a dozen different cuisines showing off at the buffet table. 

 

And it was always the hosts who were mingling and making sure that everyone was well-fed and well-watered and having a good time. That’s what made the whole experience so special; the feeling that you were part of a family event, and that your presence made a difference.

 

It was that same feeling that I experienced last week in Delhi, and it immediately transported me back to those simpler times when weddings were family affairs rather than just another opportunity to show off. Is it too much to wish that those days would come back, I thought to myself, as I drove back home. And then, admitted to myself with a sigh, it probably is.

Cover up

Mask-wearing has gone from being a socially responsible habit to becoming a class issue

I was at a wedding reception last fortnight when I first noticed it. The guests were pairing their best finery with their most dazzling smiles. But the staff that was serving them in uniform were all wearing masks. From the valets who were helping to park cars to the waiters who were passing around the snacks; from the chefs who were slaving over hot stoves in the open kitchens to the bartenders mixing cocktails with a flourish: every single person in a service role was wearing a mask. And everyone who was being served was barefaced. 

That’s when it struck me: mask wearing has gone from being a socially responsible habit to becoming a class issue. It’s only the serving classes who are expected to follow Covid protocols while the rest of us merrily contaminate the air with all our germs. 

Now that Covid seems to be on its way out with a negligible number of cases being reported every month, the upper and middle classes have decided to ditch their masks. But the same freedom has not been granted to those who serve them, both within the home and without. These people are still expected to mask in the presence of their supposed betters, offering them an illusory sense of safety from the virus. 

Take a look around when you are next on the road. It will be easy to tell the cars that are being driven by chauffeurs. Not because the drivers are all wearing peaked caps but because they are the ones who will be masked while the sahib and memsahib in the back seat stay cheerfully barefaced. The chances are that when you visit a friend’s home, the ‘guard’ manning the main gate will be masked. In a restaurant, the diners will not be masked (even when they are not eating and drinking) but all the waiters and waitresses will be in masks. On aeroplanes, the passengers will be unmasked — ignoring the announcements asking them to keep face coverings on at all times — while the flight attendants will have surgical or N 95 masks on. Even in hospitals — where, surely, mask-wearing should be mandatory — the patients tend to eschew masks while the staff attending to them stay masked. 

I am not sure when this divide became the norm. Or even why it became the norm. But I can hazard a few guesses. 

First up, of course, is the fact that we are an inherently classist society. And that if any sacrifices need to be made on the altar of public health and safety, then we think it only right that these sacrifices are made by those who are paid to serve us. 

Then, there is our tendency to see those who serve us as essentially sub-human. We don’t see staff as human beings in their own right but as ciphers whose only purpose in life is to make our lives easier. So, we think nothing of asking them to stay masked in all circumstances even as we breathe free. 

And finally, there’s the most important factor of all. We ask those who are below us in the food chain to keep their masks on for one simple reason: because we can. And with that, we are the ones who are unmasked in more ways than one. 

The book's the thing

And, as the life of Salman Rushdie proves, words are the only victors

 

“If I can’t burn you,” he told her, “I can certainly burn your book, which I don’t need to read to know that it’s full of unsuitable and forbidden thoughts, and then you will die and be forgotten, and nobody will know your name…What do you say to that?”

 

That is the threat delivered to Pampa Kampana, the semi-magical, demi-goddess heroine of Salman Rushdie’s new novel, Victory City. But it is hard not to see the author himself as the recipient, given what we know of his personal history. Subject to a kill order by the fanatical Ayatollah-led regime of Iran, Rushdie spent decades in hiding, while his book, The Satanic Verses, was burnt in the streets across the world by people who had never read as much as single chapter (or even a single word). 

 

But Rushdie did not die. He lived to tell several other tales. He lived to love (and marry) several other women. He lived to emerge from hiding and appear at literary events, where he was celebrated as a literary demi-God himself.

 

And then, came that fateful morning in August last year, when he went on stage at Chautauqua (New York) and was attacked by a fanatical young man who stabbed him 15 times in a mad frenzy. Remarkably, Rushdie survived the attack, though he lost the use of one hand and sight in one eye as a consequence. 

 

The manuscript of Victory City was delivered before this attack happened. But it is in keeping with the magic realism that powered Rushdie’s literary career, that his loss of eyesight (in one eye) is mirrored in the attack on his heroine, Pampa Kampana, who ends up being blinded in both. Does the author have a sideline in prophecy? Did he have a presentiment of what was coming round the corner? Or was this just the mother of coincidences, the kind that no writer would have the guts to magic up? I guess we will never know. 

 

The parallels with the author’s own life aside, Victory City marks a return to form for Rushdie, whose last few novels were less that well-received. Loosely based on the rise and fall of the real-life kingdom of Vijaynagar (Bisnaga in the book) in South India, it tells the story of how dynasties are created and destroyed, how magic has its own limitations, how religious tolerance is an ideal that many aspire to but few achieve, and how women struggle to make their place in a world ruled by patriarchy.

 

It is possible to read this book as a sort of feminist fable. It is a woman, Pampa Kampana, who is possessed by a goddess and creates a whole kingdom through magic, whispering entire histories into the ears of its population. She lives for 247 years and marries three kings, and remains in power for almost as long as she lives in exile. But in the end, the patriarchal world has its revenge on her, leaving her blind and broken, and longing for death to release her from this mortal coil.

 

As she writes in the history of Bisnaga she leaves behind: “I myself am nothing now. All that remains is this city of words. Words are the only victors.”

 

One suspects, that in writing that, Rushdie was writing his own epitaph. Though, God willing, he won’t need that for a while yet.

There is something in the air...

Yeah, you guessed right, it’s pollution — and it’s not just a Delhi problem any more

There was a time when I used to fly to Mumbai (while Delhi was engulfed in thick winter fog) just to see blue skies and breathe some fresh, unpolluted air. Those days are long gone, alas. 

This winter when I travelled to Mumbai, it was to the same grey skies that prevailed over Delhi. Thanks to a largely unregulated construction boom, a miasma of dust and pollutants hung over the Maximum City, making it look like a dystopian hell from the future. Nearly everyone I met had a hacking cough and doctors reported an influx of patients with some pulmonary problem or the other. A quick look at my air pollution app proved what I had suspected ever since I landed: the pollution levels in Mumbai were 

worse than those in Delhi. 

But you know what was worse than the pollution? It was the apathy. 

When pollution levels hit the high mark in Delhi, everyone acts as if there is a national emergency. Prime time debates on television discuss the problem night after night. Newspaper headlines bemoan the polluted air in increasingly hysterical tones. The state government is eventually goaded into taking some kind of action, even if the benefit of this is entirely illusory. For instance, diesel cars are taken off the roads. Odd-even schemes are launched to lessen the number of cars on the road. Construction is banned for weeks on end to get a handle on the problem. 

And that’s just at the macro level. At a micro level, every inhabitant of the national capital scrambles to find an air purifier that suits his or her budget. Offices agree on a work from home policy on days when the pollution is at the worst. And so on. 

But this time in Mumbai, I found that air pollution was just about beginning to register as an issue. Sure, television media in India is very Delhi-centric and tends to ignore stories emerging from other metros, so there were no daily prime time debates on the subject. But city newspapers were starting to focus on pollution, even though it was rarely the main headline. And the only time the state government banned construction to curb pollution levels was when there was a G 20 meeting scheduled in the city. Once that was over, it was business as usual. 

But why single out Mumbai? I was in Kolkata recently, and a quick look at my air quality app showed that the pollution levels here were just marginally lower than those in Delhi. There was the same grey haze enveloping the city; my eyes stung and watered when i ventured out; and my asthma was triggered within hours of landing at the airport. 

Sadly, over the past few years, air pollution has ceased to be a Delhi problem and mutated into an India problem. Open an air quality map and you will see practically all of north India depicted in red, to indicate dangerously high levels of air pollution. But though this is undoubtedly a national issue, we have yet to see a national campaign waged against this bane of our collective existence. 

Instead, we look for temporary fixes. Wearing N 95 masks to protect us against pollution (rather than Covid). Running air purifiers round the clock in our homes and offices. Exercising indoors rather than heading outdoors for a jog. Taking a break in a hill station or a beach resort to breathe some healthy air for a change. 

Sadly, that’s like putting a bandaid on a gunshot wound. It’s simply not going to work. 

Winter is going, going, gone

 

And I am in mourning for the season past…

 

I felt the first stirrings of disquiet when I ventured out for my usual late-afternoon walk last week. The sun, which had until then been a balmy presence, was suddenly glowering angrily down on me. Such was the intensity of its gaze that in a few minutes I had to remove the wrap I was wearing over my shirt. And when even that didn’t do the trick, I had to admit defeat and find refuge in the shady parts of the park. 

 

Clearly, the days of basking in the afternoon sun were over. Or, to put it more plainly, winter, my favourite season of the year, was over. 

 

The realization hit home with a painful intensity of a dagger to the heart. But I consoled myself that if I stayed in the shade, and delayed my walks by a few hours, then maybe, just maybe, I could enjoy the cool weather for a little while longer. That illusion didn’t last long. The next day, the temperature was, if anything, even higher, and the breeze a little warmer.

 

But it was when I got in the car to go home that the mourning really kicked in. In the middle of February, I was so hot that I had to switch on the air-conditioning to make the journey home comfortable. Winter was really and truly gone. It didn’t even have the grace to hang around until Holi (still a few weeks away), which had been the norm so far.

 

A look at the newspapers only confirmed what I had already experienced on my walk. This was the hottest February on record, with daytime temperatures hitting the 30 degree mark. And if that’s what we had to cope with in February, I shudder to think what April and May will be like.

 

As I disconsolately packed away my sweaters, put the radiators into storage, and tucked away my winter boots in the back of my closet, I tried hard to think of ways in which I could extend the pleasures of winter just a little bit longer. Or, at the very least, enjoy the ephemeral season of spring, which seems to vanish in a blast of heat no sooner than it announces its arrival with a burst of colourful blooms all across the city. 

 

So, I headed off to the neighbourhood nursery to stock up on petunias, pansies, salvia, and other spring flowers to brighten up my balcony. Until their blooms lasted, I could pretend that spring was still in attendance, even if the temperatures insisted otherwise. I headed to the kitchen to make what would quite likely be my last sarson ka saag for this season. And then, for good measure, made some alu methi to go with it, along with some bathua raita. I began my day with a freshly-peeled orange, its citric aroma scenting the air. I roasted some peanuts for my evening snack. 

 

In other words, I tried my hardest to pretend that the change of season was not happening.

 

But no matter how much you try to suspend belief, at the end of the day (or perhaps the week) you have to make your peace with reality. And that’s exactly what I am trying to do, even as I give my shawls a final airing by heading out to dinner at restaurants that are forever over air-conditioned, no matter what the time of the year.